We had been dating for a few months, seriously, and I was certainly smitten. He was outgoing, charming, and handsome. An Italian American, he reminded me of my East Coast heritage and it felt very comfortable and familiar. One day in October he asked me if I would like to meet his parents?

Meet the parents were Ringing in my ears as I tried to focus on his face. What did that mean? What do you mean, what does it mean? I asked myself. Everyone knows that means something! Doesn’t it?

“Of course,” I stammered. I was embarrassed — where were my manners?

Details were (and are) not his forte. I was lucky to get the exact date and some vague sense of what to wear (he would be wearing a suit). I was single and working and decided a new outfit was called for. I bought a sweater dress, tights and patent leather flats. It was the eighties — big hair, big earrings. I was verging on a dark-haired Madonna.

I can remember being very nervous and not eating all day. When I got home from work I changed quickly into my new outfit, put on more makeup and tried to breathe deeply. I was living at home at the time and my Mother noticed my butterflies.

“No worries,” she tried to assure, “How bad could it be?”

Michael picked me up and along the way described his parents home, a 4000 square foot condo with a 4 car garage and a Cadillac in every bay — I couldn’t fathom. At some point during the drive he mentioned that this was a get together for his brother.

“Oh?” I asked. “Is it a special occasion?”

“His birthday,” he replied, absently.

“His, his birthday?… but I don’t have a gift!?” I protested.

“Oh, it’s not that kind of birthday party” he responded.

“Party!?! You didn’t tell me it was a party!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked. If only I had buck for how many times I would hear that phrase over the next 23 years…

“No” I said flatly. “You didn’t.”

I didn’t want to appear petulant but I was really irritated. When he said, “I want you to meet my parents” I didn’t realize he meant, “the family” or should I say “mi familia?”

I was and am kind of shy and I wouldn’t know a soul except for him. I had dated him long enough to know that he was a social butterfly at parties and my mouth was dry and my palms started to sweat.

When we arrived and entered the house, we did so through the garage which led into the kitchen.

There, on the kitchen table, was Vic’s birthday cake.

A cake shaped as a pair of breasts…with cherries on top.

At first, it didn’t register. Was that? Are those? I stood there, staring, stunned, not knowing what to say. I knew very little about his family, his siblings. I Looked over at Michael who was trying to suppress a chuckle. Upon seeing my face, he quickly recovered and shrugged and suggested we move along. I reluctantly followed.

I was introduced to several people on the way down to the lower level where I met his Father and mother. Michael’s father (who he is named after) was an imposing, burly Italian with a drink in his hand. He wore a pinky ring. I felt like I had met a member of the Rat Pack or a Corleone. My surroundings certainly re-enforced that first impression as well. It read like a kind of rumpus room with a bar, a painting of his doberman and formal portraits of the family.

I heard his mother before I met her — a high, boisterous laugh. It was so distinctive. There was no missing it, like a cartoon laugh. From there it was his grandparents, both sides, and all of his siblings and their respective spouses. I even met the first grandchild, Joey, held in his mothers’ arms.

To say that I was overwhelmed was an understatement. I wanted to run for the nearest exit and phone someone for a ride. I don’t know if Michael sensed this, but he asked if he could get me a drink. I nodded and he asked, “how about a martini?”

I replied, “I’ve never had one before.”

“Let me make you one, I think you’ll like it.”

So off he went, while I tried to chat with his sister-in-law and his brother Joe. Turns out Joe and I were in the same grade at the same junior high. I knew that we had attended the same school and I remembered him, but we did not hang in the same circles. I was a shy, wall flower of an awkward girl in junior high — braces, glasses, zits and big early-blooming breasts. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe those miserable years.

Joe, on the other hand, was a “hood,” a bit of a trouble-maker with long hair, wearing a jean jacket, a desperado baby mustache, bell bottoms — dangerous.

He looked much different now, with a wife and baby. Very respectable. But there was something mischievous in his face as he excused himself while Judy and I began talking about baby Joey in her arms. Michael’s mother and grandmother joined us to chat as well.

Joe eventually returned to our conversation, holding a yearbook in his arms.

Our junior high yearbook.

A yearbook with a very, very unfortunate picture of me at 13.

Could I die? Could I crawl under a rock? It was one thing to be thrown into an uncomfortable situation (boob cake, the entire, extended family, etc.) but to be humiliated like this? In front of Michael’s parents while his brother had a good laugh at my expense? I looked over at Michael who was fetching my second martini.

“Look, honey, he’s got our junior high year book…” my eyes were BEGGING him to intercede.

“Hey, let me see that,” was his response. My heart sank. Obtuse.

Judy excused herself to feed the baby and Joe and the yearbook disappeared only to be replaced by a tall, leggy blond who introduced herself as Barb. Barb was a lingerie model. Divorced with a child, turns out Barb and my boyfriend used to date. The evening was in a death spiral and the only thing that was going to soften the blow was another martini. What the hell?

Without warning, she reached over and grabbed Michael’s crotch.

“What does she have that I don’t have?” she asked him.

“Me,” was Michael’s sarcastic response. In true Michael fashion he looked around, impressed with himself and his pithy comeback. Again, obtuse.

“Oh dear,” commented his mother, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen anything.

I put my drink down and headed for the stairs.

“Wait a minute,” he grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “I didn’t know she was going to be here, she is a family friend and I didn’t know she would act that way.”

I opted not to speak my mind, “with friends like that what should I make of your family?”

I was trapped with no way out. Had I been a stronger, more determined sort, I would have walked. But I felt more helpless than anything else. Michael’s brother Frank decided music was in order, just in the nick of time, and so we danced. Beatles. My saving grace, really, “Twist and Shout.”

Turns out there was no food at this shindig, really, it was a cocktail party. So, after all the trauma of the evening, the martini’s and the lack of food, I was zonked, not drunk really but sooooo tired I could barely stand.

The party had dissipated and Michael and I volunteered to clean up. We said very little to each other. I was trying to clear my head of alcohol and to process what had just transpired. We sat down on the sofa in the pool room for a little respite.

Fast forward to 3am.

Something woke me. It was a ringing. A telephone ringing, ringing, ringing. I was vaguely becoming conscious when I realized I had fallen asleep with my contacts still in my eyes… my hard contacts. I kind of freaked. I had injured one of my corneas previously by doing just this, so I ran to the bathroom with my purse and put some drops in my eyes.

As I was looking at myself in the mirror and squirting my eyes, I slowly put two and two together:  the ringing that had woken me was likely my father, because I had a sinking feeling that it was an obscene hour and I was in deep shit.

I ran into the pool room and grabbed Michael by the collar and shook him awake.

“What time is it?” I demanded.

He was groggy and non-responsive.

“For god sake, what time is it?” I shook him harder and he opened his eyes and looked at me.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Oh my God!” I screamed, looking at his watch. “It’s 3 o’clock in the morning.”

“Someone’s been calling. I heard the phone ringing over and over. I’m sure it was my father. He’s going to kill me.”

Then I looked at Michael and he read my mind, “He’s going to kill you!”

We grabbed our coats and raced to the car. All the way back to my house Michael was reasoning with me.

“You’re 23 years old…”

“I know, but I live at home and there are some house rules. It’s not the time, really. I can stay out as late as I want, but I always check in and let them know! So they won’t worry. And I didn’t call.”

Unbeknownst to me at the time, not only had my father called Michael’s father demanding to know where his little girl was, but he also tracked down Michael’s room mate demanding to know where I was. Both were mystified and did not have any idea of where we were. Both had thought we had departed long ago and didn’t realize we were still in the basement.

We pulled up into my driveway and all the lights in the house were on. In spite of all his apparent confidence, Michael ran me to the door, pecked me on the cheek and left me there. Abandoned me to face the fire alone.

Duly noted.

I walked into the house, into the kitchen where a fresh pot of coffee had been brewed and drunk, with maybe an inch left in the pot. I slowly made my way into the family room. Earlier in the evening I had imagined sharing the awful details with my mom who would surely offer me comfort and sympathy. No way in hell would there be a soul left in my camp now. I found my mother and father, in their robes and pajamas, both holding coffee cups, sitting on the hearth.

It was obvious Mom had been crying. “You’ll just never know until you have one of your own…”

Dad on the other hand was grinding his teeth, his famous vein throbbing down the side of his head. Like a child I felt like dropping to my knees and begging for forgiveness.

I mustered up some courage and I said, “I’m really sorry to have worried you. We fell asleep after we cleaned up the basement, honest. I had no idea it was 3am until I heard a phone ringing. Nothing happened. I usually call. It was unintentional, but I can understand why you’re upset.”

“You fell asleep?” my father repeated, incredulous. “Where is your date? Why didn’t he come in?”

I had no answer for him. Between the horrific night I just had with his family and my parents, sitting there exhausted and ashen, my big “meet the parents” moment couldn’t have been any further from my fantasy. There was nothing left to say. In trying to make a good impression with his family, I left my own family with a horrible impression.

And with that I went to bed.